


In Betrayal

by Winterstar



Series: The Depths [3]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Angst, F/M, Infidelity, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-10
Updated: 2012-08-10
Packaged: 2018-03-30 16:25:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3943567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Winterstar/pseuds/Winterstar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>third story in the series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Betrayal

She misses Neal. She misses his inopportune visits, his interrupting their breakfast to dig through the cereal box for the surprise toy. She misses his palate and his discerning critique of her menu and offerings at Burke Premiere Events. She wonders why he doesn’t come around anymore. She watches and waits. She wants to question Peter, to find out why he’s suddenly not bringing Neal home for dinner. She chuckles a bit down deep in her throat as she smiles. She remembers a time when Satchmo ate Peter’s meals which transformed into cooking enough for three because inevitably Neal would trail Peter into their kitchen during late nights. Now she cooks for two and Peter is nearly never late.

She knows something is wrong. 

Elizabeth Burke is a woman of action and fortitude, she doesn’t often let life ride over her. This time she sits back and observes for just a while. There are times in life she thinks that she has to watch and learn and figure things out before she can move forward to a conclusion. 

Her husband gets up for work every morning, he shaves and talks to her about her day, he calls her hon, and asks for deviled ham sandwiches. He laughs when she mentions the best lunches he had had been when he worked in the Cave. His eyes shift off to a neutral place and she swears she sees his cheeks color with just a tinge of red. She marks it down as a bit of embarrassment at being assigned such a lowly post. After all, he is Peter Burke one of the FBI’s best agents. She thinks so anyway and she tells him so. He always kisses her long and soft. She smiles and winks at him. He touches his lips to her forehead and breathes in her scent. It feels right.

Yet, she knows something is wrong. 

After Neal suffers another loss of someone close and important in his life, Peter staggers home like a broken marionette puppet with loosened strings and ruined joints. She holds him as he murmurs that he cannot see how Neal will go on, he cannot save Neal if the world continues to abuse and batter him. She rocks him in her arms and asks if he would like to go over and see Neal, just for the night. Neal needs him; Neal’s lost a mother in his life. Peter refuses. It strikes a cold chord in her heart and she stops her motion. She strokes through his hair still, but cannot fathom why he would leave Neal alone at such a time. She blinks away her own tears.

She knows something is wrong.

As she cups his head to her breast, she caresses his hair, his neck, his back. She touches him and moves him and lifts his face to meet hers. She kisses his mouth and his lips are lax, yielding with a silent plea. She answers it with urgency and potency she needs to feel from him. There is only loss and want. They undress each other, they meld and tangle and fall together. She climaxes as the moon falls down behind the curtain of clouds outside the windows and she’s never felt more alone than with her husband on top of her, thrusting in her, and her heart crescendoing in her chest.

He finds his resolution and drops away, curling over and around her. She lies in the night staring at the lost moon and the bleached out sky of Brooklyn in the night. She thinks of Neal, alone in his apartment, mourning for a woman who was his second mother, she thinks of the cold aftermath of love and how it pierces and perverts all at once.

She thinks her heart knows what is wrong.

She vows to herself not to trust her instincts, she cannot be right. There has to be another explanation, Occam’s razor has to be wrong sometimes. There has to be a reasonable and right other side to the coin she’s studying. So, she goes about finding the truth in her life and in her marriage. She doesn’t snoop; she will not permit herself to be degraded to that point. She does the next best thing.

She invites Neal to dinner herself. When he tries to decline, she presses him. It surprises her how easily he surrenders, like he’s too tired and exhausted to ward off her advances, like he’s been tested and tried so much over the last weeks that it has become unbearable to even put up a modicum of a fight. He agrees and offers to bring the wine. She tells him to bring a red. 

She prepares a crown beef roast and cooks it rare. She adds a portabella mushroom pie and sweetened squash dish. The kitchen aroma fills the rowhouse and she smiles as she sets the table. It almost feels like a party, it almost feels like she’s entertaining for the pure reason of a gathering. When she places the clothe napkin at Neal’s place, she stops and smoothes the fold. She wonders what she’ll find, is it the unspeakable? Or has Neal shattered the trust of her husband again so much that Peter cannot face the truth – that he should have left well enough of alone and never brought Neal back to the States and his old deal. 

Shaking her head, she finishes the tasks. The china glimmers and the stem ware reflects the colors and beauty of her china pattern. Everything is ready, everything – except for her heart. It hits in her chest with a brutal thrum. It hurts her sternum, makes it hard to breath. She thinks for an instant that she should call it off. Glancing down at her watch, she considers the fleeting thought of contacting Neal and telling him not to come. 

The doorbell rings. 

She checks her sheath dress and knows that every curve and swell of her hips and breasts are accentuating her sexuality. For a moment, she feels like she’s preparing for a date, that Neal is her date. When she swings open the door, he’s resting with his back to the wall, his hat tipped slightly over his eyes, and a smile that breaks open her mood and she can’t help but return it.

“Neal,” Elizabeth says and leans up to kiss his cheek. 

He wraps one hand around her waist as he shifts the bag he’s holding. “Elizabeth.” His tone sounds happy, soft, and sweet. 

Her heart melts a little.

She steals herself against him; she knows he’s a con-man, an artist of the greatest skill. She ushers him in and he surveys the living room as if he’s expecting someone, as if he’s bracing himself for seeing Peter.

“Peter took Satchmo for a walk. He’ll be back in a bit,” Elizabeth says and offers to take the packages from him.

“Oh,” he says and hands the bags to her. “I wasn’t sure what exactly you were cooking so I brought a variety.”

She peers in the bag and there are several bottles of wine and a cake from his bakery. “I didn’t know you still owned the bakery.”

“Have to support myself somehow. Legally, that is,” he replies and winks at her. He flips off his hat and tosses it to the side as he follows her in the kitchen. “Do you want me to open the wine to let it breathe?”

“Sure, the corkscrew is in the second drawer down,” Elizabeth says and points as she places the small pies on the island. The smell is rich and heady. 

“Smells wonderful,” he says and works the corkscrew into the bottle. “Is that portabella mushroom pie?”

“Yep,” she says and it tickles her that he knows.

“Any chance it is a recipe by Emeril?” 

“How did you know?” Elizabeth feels flushed and pleased all at once. 

He shrugs and gives her a sidelong glance. “I’ve been to New Orleans a few times myself.”

“Nola?”

“One of my favorite restaurants,” he says as he smiles at the memory. Yet as he recalls it, a shadow falls over him but he shakes it off and continues with the bottle.

She stumbles over her words. “I-I’m sorry, Neal. I’m sorry for your loss.”

He swallows back his reaction and says, “Thank you. Glasses?”

The non-sequitar confuses her for a moment, but then she realizes he’s asking for wine glasses. She goes to the cupboard and retrieves them. Before she puts them on the counter, he’s speaking in low tones.

“One thing I’ve learned is to live on, to not let sorrow stop you.”

She only nods because she cannot comprehend the depths of his losses. His love, his surrogate mother, how can he move on? How can he stay grounded without someone to hold him down, without someone to love him. He reminds her of an untethered flag, loosed from its pole. Her heart aches against her sternum. She wants to deny her empathy for him, that isn’t the point of this night.

“Let’s have a glass,” she says to fill up the spaces of pained silence.

He pours the red as the door opens and Peter enters the vestibule. She notes a small almost unperceivable tremor as he finishes the third glass. At first she feels sorry for him, but chides herself and clears her mind. She has a mission. 

She knows something is wrong.

Satchmo bounds his way into the kitchen first, his tail wagging and his fur a flurry of wet raindrops. As Peter follows he’s speaking, “Maybe we should call, Neal, tell him not to-.”

Neal raises his glass and says, “No worries, Peter, I won’t melt in the rain.” He downs a significant portion of it as Peter looks everywhere but at Neal.

“Here, Peter,” Elizabeth says as she rescues him. She offers him a glass and then says, “Cheers.”

“Cheers,” Peter answers as Neal mumbles a word that Elizabeth thinks might be peace.

The evening moves on from the awkwardness of the moment to a more comfortable atmosphere as the bell rings for the roast and there are sounds of appreciation from both of the men as Elizabeth pulls it out of the oven. Neal adds his thanks again for the invitation, but keeps his focus on Elizabeth, never looking at Peter, never acknowledging Peter standing in the room.

“I’m gonna run upstairs and get out of the wet clothes,” Peter says and he escapes.

Neal offers to help with the last preparations and she finds him a handy assistant in the kitchen. “I spent some time as a waiter in a little French café for a summer once.”

“A waiter?” she says and turns her head in doubt.

“Grant it, I was allegedly casing a small gallery close to the café, but I did enjoy meeting the patrons. Hated the work, too back breaking.” He slips a fork and knife in place. 

“And breaking into high security vaults and museums isn’t back breaking work?” Peter says as he re-enters the dining area.

Neal laughs. “Allegedly and from only hearsay, I can only say that, yes it is.”

Peter slaps him on the back and Elizabeth announces it is time for dinner. They all sit and the conversation turns to galleries in France, to the museums of Italy, somehow switches to international love of football as opposed to the American game of football. Elizabeth watches and waits and she finds herself smiling and happy and she hates it.

She can only think that Peter must have found out something about Neal, something that is so disturbing and so wrong that he cannot share it with her. He must, deep down, regrets his decision to bring Neal back from Cape Verde, maybe he even regrets saving him from Collins. She refuses to believe that of Peter. It has to be something else, something is wrong. Maybe Neal confessed something to Peter and he has to figure out a way to clear him before they move on.

As she mulls the possibilities over, Neal laughs at something Peter said and smiles brightening the room. Yet it isn’t his confidence man dazzling expression, it is open and carefree and vulnerable. Without thought, he lays his hand on Peter’s wrist and Peter doesn’t shift away. He stays and locks his gaze on Neal, a moment in time intimate and secret.

She sees it. 

It draws a hitch down deep in her throat, twists and cuts in her gut, paralyzes her lungs until only a cough relieves her of the pain. She stumbles to stand up, while both Peter and Neal jump away from one another and look at her. She shakes her head as she continues to cough. Racing to the kitchen, she pours herself a glass of water as Peter hovers over her.

“Are you all right, hon?”

“No, I-.” She doesn’t know what to say, the words all collide into a fusion of letters and sounds that won’t come out in any sense at all. She drinks some of the water and catches a glimpse of Neal over Peter’s shoulder. She recognizes it; he knows. He knows that she saw the look, that she witnessed her husband’s indiscretion. 

He swallows and turns away. His hat magically appears on his head and he’s begging off, saying exhaustion set in. He needs to leave. He departs without either one of them following him. Peter stands over her in the kitchen, his hand stroking her back.

“What is it? El? You’re white as a sheet.”

She glances at the table with its scrapes of dinner, with the shining china and stem ware. She focuses on Neal’s glass, the marks his hands made on the bowl of the glass, the slight smear of his lips on the rim. She looks back at Peter and the words rectify and line up like soldiers in her head. They are at full war mode and she cannot stop the attack.

“What does it feel like to kiss him, Peter? What does it feel like to kiss Neal?”

Peter opens his mouth and she can see he isn’t breathing. His chest is frozen, his eyes unblinking. She watches as the lie shifts over his features, as he discards it, and then as sorrow marks him. He tears his focus away from her and looks at the table, as if Neal is sitting there waiting for him, as if the con-artist could supply words for Peter to make it all better.

He turns back to her and whispers, “I love you, El.”

“But you love him, too.” She states it; she doesn’t need to frame it as a question. She already knows the answer, so it is a statement, plain and simple.

He moves his jaw and sucks in his cheeks as if he’s fighting not to weep, then he purses his lips and admits it with only a nod.

“Do you want to leave me?”

He shakes his head. “I want-.” His voice cracks, fragments. His face pales. “I want to be with you. I love you more than anything in the world, El.”

“But you love him, too.”

He nods. “Yes.”

“In that way.”

He swallows and she knows he is pushing back the tears. “Yes.”

“Since when?” She needs the details, all of them. She wants to know what she’s working with, what she’s working against in this battle field.

“I don’t-.” He starts but sees from her expression that any attempt at obfuscation will not fly not now, not ever. “The cape. Since Cape Verde. When I saw him, and I hugged him, I knew then.”

“Have you,” she gasps as she says the words but she needs to get them out. “Have you had-. Have you had sex.” She can’t say the last of the sentence. Have you had sex with Neal?

“No, no,” Peter says and opens in his hands in supplication. “No.”

She closes her eyes for a moment to clear her thoughts, to get ready for the next part of this horrible evening. “Have you done anything with him?”

He blanches and her heart plummets out of her chest. She lets out a cry and holds onto the counter, leaning into it. Peter reaches over but she shrugs him off.

“A kiss, only a kiss, El.”

She glares at him. “Only a kiss? A kiss? Prostitutes don’t kiss because it’s intimate and a promise. It would have been better if he gave you a blow job.”

He tightens his jaw and bites back his reply. 

“Don’t, Peter, you are not the injured party here.”

The moment of anger dissipates from him, from her. He asks, “Where do we go from here? Do you want me to leave?”

She looks at the table again, the empty space that Neal left. She thinks of him alone, always alone. His loves are all stripped from his life; she knows how it feels a little bit today. For the life of her, she feels sorry for Neal and she’s angry that she does.

“No, I want you to stay,” she says, not sure of it until she voices it.

“Okay,” Peter says. “I want to stay.”

“And Neal?”

“I’ll have Diana assigned his handler, I’ll change teams within the White Collar crew.”

“You’ll still see him every day.”

Peter acknowledges this with a quick jerk of his head. “If you want I can request a different assignment.”

“Take leave.”

“Leave?” he says and looks at her, really looks at her. He’s ruined, wrecked and in love – with her – with him. Pity wells up inside of her and she hates herself a little.

“Let’s go see your parents, for a while.”

“My parents?” His confusion telegraphs on his face.

“To ground yourself, Peter. We’ll go see your parents, and then we can fly to Belize or somewhere tropical.”

“Okay,” he agrees but she sees he’s still walking around the mine field trying to figure things out.

“Then we’ll come back and go into couple’s therapy, and you will go to individual therapy,” she states. “You’ll ask to be re-assigned.” Somehow, something deep inside of her despises herself for taking yet another person out of Neal’s life. The shame heats her cheeks but she ignores it. She has this right, she is the wife.

“Okay.” 

She walks over to the table and starts clearing it, stacking the plates and the silverware. She peers over her shoulder but he hasn’t moved. He’s staring into space. When he notices the puttering noises stop, he says, “I really do love you with all my heart, El.”

“I know.”

“Will you forgive me?”

She stops and places the plate down on the stack. “It isn’t about forgiveness, it is about starting over.” 

She leans over and picks up Neal’s glass and stares at the slight smudge of his lip on the rim. “The real question is, Peter, how do we do that? How do we re-define us ?”


End file.
